


A Splendid Exchange

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Anniversary, Established Relationship, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 07:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17463002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: Holmes and Watson celebrate the anniversary of their furtive but sacred commitment to each other, enjoying each other's company and reaffirming their love. There is a vibrator involved.





	A Splendid Exchange

It was the time of year when the joyous Christmas spirit was fading from memory; when festive lights were taken down, caroling voices fell silent, and the chill winds and early darkness lost their charm. All round London could be heard the resigned sighs and mutters of six and a half million souls settling into the cheerless remaining months of winter.

At 221B Baker Street, however, things were not so dreary, for with the end of the Christmas season came the approach of a day that my dear friend Sherlock Holmes and I cherished deeply: the anniversary of our introduction, at St. Bart’s Hospital on a wintry day in 1881. In between Christmastime, which held for Holmes and I perhaps less appeal than it did for those who had loving families and wide circles of friends with whom to celebrate it, and Valentine’s Day, when those whose romances were of a conventional and socially accepted variety could make public declarations of such, fell the day when Holmes and I privately honoured our continuing devotion to one another. Each year, plans were made and gifts were purchased weeks in advance, so irresistible was our anticipation, and the buoyant feelings which flourished during the celebration we enjoyed in secret kept us energised through the remainder of the bitter winter.

Holmes had made the arrangements for the first two events of the evening: dinner at Simpson’s, and then afterward a performance by the touring Conservatoire Orchestra at the Queen’s Hall theatre. It was not unusual for us to dine at a restaurant and then take in a concert – we were treated to several such outings each year courtesy of Holmes’ well-off clients alone, to say nothing of the times that Holmes, flush with a recent cash reward for his services, would make it his treat. But those evenings lacked the magical touch of our secret knowledge, that this was in fact a renewal of our commitment to our clandestine companionship, which those other patrons around us were entirely oblivious to.

Our anniversary brought out a touch of the mischievous in Holmes. Every other day of the year, propriety was his absolute watchword. But this evening, beginning when we were in the hansom cab and continuing on through the outing, he employed occasional gestures which, while subtle enough to evade the notice of any and all bystanders, served to positively enflame me with lust.

Allow me to elaborate on some examples: Holmes was known to the world by then for the careful and considered way he looked at things. Many was the time, in the course of a case, when he produced his magnifying glass from his pocket, and onlookers would gather more closely around him, desperate to see the things he saw (not understanding that they had little hope of ever _observing_ what he _observed_ ). But no one besides myself, so far as I am aware, was ever the subject of the particular gaze of his that I would call “flirtatious.” During dinner, I looked up from my meal just to glance at him, and found that he was looking at me, at some parts of me or the whole, with curious intensity. He must have known right then that I had caught him, but he continued for a moment more, devouring me with his eyes, before meeting my gaze for just the briefest instant. Only then did he shy away, with an coy tilt of his head, an embarrassed little twitch of his mouth. He was so skillful at being selectively bashful, and it drove me to madness to have to sit there and do nothing about it.

Later on, the concert brought to his face subtle expressions which were very different from those flirtatious peeks but were to me equally stirring. I have made no secret of it in my stories that Holmes adores concert performances and the opera, and that he becomes positively enraptured by the music, closing his eyes and feeling every breath and note and yes, each instant of silence too, in his very soul. But it has been quite a journey for me, from seeing those beatific expressions during visits to the theatre early in our acquaintance, to seeing them now, and comparing them to the expressions I have witnessed while he is in the throes of sexual ecstasy. I do not know how reliable my memory may be, or whether it was my mind playing tricks on me, but I could swear that since we began our intimate companionship, Holmes’ silent but expressive reaction to the performance of music had come to resemble not the mere happiness I used to see, but more the erotic bliss he revels in when I am inside him. On the evening of our anniversary, he kept his eyes closed through nearly all the performance, silently inviting me to cast sidelong glances at his face, a face which to any other observer would show the unremarkable appreciation of a connoisseur, but to me is the look of lust thoroughly gratified.

And for Holmes it was not enough that evening to confine these temptations to the visual. It happened too many times that evening to be an accident or coincidence, when he turned towards me as if looking disapprovingly at something just beyond myself, and sighed with seeming despair; the warm gust of his breath across my ear never failed to send a shiver down my spine. He would then turn back as if nothing had happened.

Never did he touch me in any untoward manner in public. Never, outside of our private lodgings, did he place a hand on my knee, or press his fingers to the small of my back, or lean against me. Not even in the shadows, nor in the relative safety of a cab. That sort of thing was not a risk Holmes would take, and I confess, I loved it: not being able to have it, my yearning for it was so sweet, because I knew I never need worry that such longing would go unfulfilled for very long. If Holmes ever favoured me with a significant look, or made a subtle comment he knew only I would catch, I could be guaranteed he would make good on it soon enough (he would not tease, say, in the midst of a case, when his focus was on other things and fulfillment might be delayed indefinitely).

By the time Holmes was paying the cab driver who brought us back to Baker Street, his hours of subtle mischief had made me rampant, and grateful for the bulk of my greatcoat to conceal it. I knew that soon, our bodies would be superbly entangled, and I could do little to suppress my anticipation.

I entered the flat first, removing my hat, coat, and scarf, while Holmes followed behind, and took care to lock the door. I helped him remove and hang up his things, going so far as to slip his gloves off for him, holding his hands in mine to warm them. It was when we found ourselves alone, funnily enough, that his glances became genuinely coy, barely meeting my eyes before demurring. For all that he had spent the evening being an incorrigible flirt, he now waited for me to make an advance, so that he might surrender to me.

This was no hardship to me. I placed both hands on either side of his jaw, gently tilting his head so that our lips might meet. He sighed deliciously into my mouth, and welcomed my tongue when it requested admittance. We indulged in several minutes of profoundly passionate kisses, the thrill of which went straight to my prick; a wet spot bloomed in my trousers as I pulsed with readiness.

“I want to give you my gift,” I said against his mouth.

“I desperately want that as well,” he panted.

“I mean my _actual_ gift,” I chuckled, “the one I bought for you.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Holmes, and straightened up. “Let me get the fire going, and we’ll have a splendid exchange. Of gifts, that is.”

While Holmes lit the fire that Mrs. Hudson had kindly laid for us, I poured us each a glass of burgundy. Then I stepped over to the desk, where I had placed a neatly-wrapped box earlier that day. When Holmes turned back to me, I put the glass in one of his hands, and the box in the other. He hefted the box once, and I saw it in his face the very instant he determined what was inside. That was not so surprising; if one considered the shape and weight of the box, and the nature of our companionship, it probably narrowed down the possibilities considerably. But at least the details and color would be a surprise to him.

We sat on the chaise sofa near the fire, and holding the box in his lap, Holmes untied the string and unfolded the wrapping paper with great care. He lifted the lid, and despite his having guessed the item a minute ago, his eyes still shone and his mouth fell open with surprise. He unfurled the folded garment: a lavish satin dressing gown, in royal purple.

He admired how substantial it was, for such delicate and lustrous material, and ran his fingers over the plush piping and fine stitching. “Oh, but this must have cost a fortune.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said. “The Lord High Commissioner was grateful that I was on hand to set his nephew’s broken leg when we were on the Glenorchy Kirk case, and he saw fit to slip me a few extra coins at its conclusion.”

“A few indeed,” Holmes said, caressing the smooth, radiant satin. He set the empty box aside, rose from the chaise, and removed his jacket, donning the dressing gown in its place. “It fits perfectly,” he said, wrapping it round himself. While the fabric was sumptuously thick throughout, its wide cuffs and shawl lapels in particular were quilted, and he flushed to feel enveloped in such cosy luxury. He twirled before me like a debutante showing off a new ball gown, and I gave him a tiny round of applause to demonstrate my approval. The deep, rich color was a perfect complement to his alabaster skin.

“Magnificent,” he sighed. “Now I hope you’ll excuse me for a moment. Your gift is in my bedroom, and while I’m in there, I think I will try this on without the rest my clothes.”

He disappeared into the other room for a few minutes, during which time I hastily removed my jacket, tie, and collar; if Holmes was getting settled in and comfortable, there was no reason for me to go on looking as though I were ready to walk out the door.

Holmes poked his head out of the bedroom, giving me an impish look before stepping back into the sitting room. He wore the dressing gown tightly wrapped, but despite its considerable length, one might guess by a glimpse of bare ankle that he was naked beneath it. Under one arm he carried a dark wooden box tied with a wide red ribbon.

Grinning at me, he swanned over to warm himself nearer the fire and declared, “It feels so wonderful against my skin. I think I will keep to wearing it during the warmer months, when I can go about comfortably with just this on...though I could be convinced to do so at other times, with suitable incentives.”

“I’ll try to think of some,” I said mildly.

Holmes handed me the box he’d brought. I untied the ribbon and set it aside. The box was further secured with two metal clasps; I unsnapped these and lifted the lid. As I did, Holmes sat down next to me and explained: “Ever since Mrs. Hudson had the flat wired for electricity, I have wracked my brain for all the ways we might utilise the mains – for the purposes of my trade, and assisting the police, of course. The common good. But when I was perusing a commercial catalog I saw this item, and knew instantly that we ought to have one.”

The interior of the box was lined with velvet, by coincidence also purple. There were several unfamiliar components inside, and each had a molded custom slot into which it was placed.

I lifted out the largest of these components: a squat nickel-plated cylinder, from which protruded a narrow and gently curved handle, rather like a hairbrush, and also a perpendicular appendage to which the remaining smaller parts could be attached interchangeably. These parts were made of India rubber. One was a flat disk, one was so round as to be nearly spherical, and the third was flat as well but was studded with soft rounded teeth, like a curry-comb.

Also included was a card, which I picked up and read:

“ _The most scientific way of enjoying beneficial massage at home. Invigorates the nerves and stimulates the circulation. Relieves congested areas by natural means and brings refreshing sleep. The swift pulsations of the electric motor give you concentrated exercise without overheating_. Good lord, Holmes, I’m overheating myself, just reading this, it sounds positively lurid.”

Holmes put a hand on my shoulder. “Now, now,” he said dismissively, but with an undertone that told me he agreed with me totally. “All the testimonies I’ve read say that this machine is a technological wonder, perfect for sore muscles and frazzled nerves...which I know I am responsible for your being burdened with, on our more strenuous cases.”

“I wouldn’t trade that for the world,” I assured him with a pat on the knee. “But I’m sure this device will be a great consolation, on those days when my shoulder is particularly bothersome.” I found it impossible to resist, however, the impure thoughts that the suggestive card had conjured in my mind. I hinted to Holmes, “Tonight I might like to try it on _you_ , though, if you’re amenable.”

“Right now?” Holmes smiled knowingly. “Whatever you wish.” He decorously turned his back to me before tugging the collar of his new dressing gown outwards and down, revealing his shoulders and the nape of his neck to me, stoking the flames of my excitement.

I leapt from the sofa and plugged the device into the new socket in the wall. The cord was just long enough to comfortably use it while seated next to Holmes. I did not know which of the three attachments would be the most suitable, so I selected the round one more or less at random and affixed it to the device. I held the thing by the handle, found the switch, and tested it first in the palm of my hand. It made quite a racket, but the percussive vibrations against my hand were astounding. Powerful as it was, it seemed perfectly safe to use on Holmes, so I applied it to his shoulders.

His response was unholy: lascivious groans and provocative whimpers filled the room as the device pounded against his knotted muscles. The machine surged against him in a way that no human hand could, and he could not help but yield to its tireless oscillations, arching his back, moaning, rolling his shoulders this way and that, and just generally behaving like an animal in heat. And just when he might begin to get accustomed to the feeling, and quiet down, if I moved it to another part of him, he would start right back up again. The first complete sentence he was able to form was “Watson, this thing is a _marvel_. Lower. I beg you, beneath my shoulder blades. _Oh!_ It’s indescribable.” All control seemed lost as we both became subject to the hypnotic rhythms of this powerful machine. I could not believe that this thing could be procured from an ordinary mail-order catalog; it was the most obscene device imaginable, driving Holmes into a sensual frenzy while turning my every thought to amorous congress.

With some effort, I collected myself, then switched the device off, so I would not need to speak over the sound of it (and of Holmes’ moans of pleasure). But I remained ensorcelled by it, for what I said to Holmes was, “Do you think you might like me to use this on any other parts of you?”

“Oh, hm,” he said, as if it had not occurred to him that such a thing might be possible with this thing he himself had purchased. He turned around to face me, allowing me a good long look as he slowly untied the sash of his dressing gown and parted it, revealing himself to me. He reclined on the sofa as he spread the dressing gown wide, laying himself out for me to feast my eyes on. Draped in the lush, glossy fabric with his limbs askew and his prick half-hard, he looked astonishingly lewd. “It’s your gift,” he said. “You can use it wherever you like on me.”

As the time for coyness was clearly over, I saw no reason not to lean over him, brace one hand on his thigh, and place the tip of the massager on the underside of his prick. I switched it on. Holmes immediately began to squirm and to utter a continuous high moan. I had only the briefest opportunity to slide the little rubber attachment up and down the length of his shaft, however, before he shrieked, “Switch it off! Switch it off!”

I obeyed the second he got the words out. “Good god, I hope I didn’t hurt you?”

Holmes put his hand over his heart, and ran the other through his hair as he caught his breath. “It didn’t hurt, but it was very intense. _Incredibly_ intense.”

“Perhaps it would be better if you used the device on yourself, while I enjoyed you in the usual way.”

I held the massager out to him, and he took it. “I believe there is still some petroleum jelly in the bathroom,” he suggested.

I went to fetch it, and when I returned, Holmes had affixed another attachment to the massager, the one with the soft little teeth, and he was testing it with his hand. “This will be better, I think.”

I sat between his spread legs on the sofa, then unscrewed the lid on the petroleum jelly and gathered a dollop on my fingers. Often when I prepared Holmes for my prick, I would frig him or suck him at the same time, but tonight, Holmes insisted I leave room in the vicinity of where my fingers were dipping into him. He instructed me to push two fingers in as far as I could, with my palm up, so I could crook those fingers to touch the especially pleasurable spot inside him. He propped himself up on one elbow to improve his vantage point slightly, and then reached out to rest the massager attachment squarely on the curve of my palm. Then he switched it on.

The vibration travelled through my hand and up my fingers, and Holmes instantly relaxed into the sensation he was transmitting to me and then back into himself. “ _Ohh_ , that’s heavenly,” he groaned. “That is the perfect…God, I can feel it all the way up there. Rub it just a bit harder with your fingers…yes. Oh Christ, _yes_.”

He tossed about in ecstasy, and to see him so made my prick throb in my trousers, threatening to bring forth a torrent of spunk before I’d even got it out. But the device seemed once again to be too much for him, and he switched it off. I held still, thinking it best to wait until he’d recovered, and could give further instructions.

“I might have easily spent just from that,” he breathed, letting his arms fall to his sides. “But that wouldn’t be as much fun for you, I don’t think.”

“I was having a delightful time watching you,” I offered. It was the truth, though I was secretly relieved we weren’t finished yet.

“I’m glad to hear that, but if I could be selfish, I would still like to celebrate our anniversary by having you bring me to glory on your noble prick.”

“You make a compelling argument,” I said. And so at Holmes’ behest, I withdrew my fingers and unbuttoned my trousers. He watched me intently, cherishing as he always did the moment when my prick was brought out. He thought it very fine and liked to see it appear. Once it had, I took my hands away for a moment, so he could watch it bob up and down as I shifted. Then, taking up the petroleum jelly, I greased it for its task.

Holmes was lying with his head at the end of the chaise, with nothing behind him to brace himself on, and so I would have to be careful not to push him off the edge with my thrusts. I decided to help keep him secure by hooking my hands under his thighs, and with each stroke pull him onto my prick as much as I pushed it into him. He found this arrangement quite agreeable; he lifted his legs up around me, sometimes resting his ankles on my shoulders, sometimes letting his knees fall until they nearly touched his chest, depending on how deeply he wanted my prick to go up him.

While I worked myself in and out of his rapacious body, he continued to hold the massager in one hand, and for a few seconds at a time would use it to stimulate himself; he kept to soft or muscled areas, like his belly or thighs, letting the vibrations resonate through him, while languidly frigging himself with his other hand. The bursts of intensity when he used the device punctuated an otherwise leisurely coupling. We were compelled to go a little slower, as with one knee on the sofa, the other foot on the floor, and both arms wrapped round Holmes’ thighs, I had limited leverage; it was a position that encouraged a more measured pace. Splayed and full of energy but in no hurry, we took our pleasure with entwined limbs and mutual sighs of gratification.

The massager was so noisy that whenever it was not in use, the quiet seemed too much, and I felt compelled to fill the relative silence. “I must tell you, Holmes, even after all these years, I don’t think I shall ever grow tired of your charming little vestibule.” As I said this, I pushed into him, and hummed with the snug warmth of it. “It feels magnificent.”

Holmes’ initial look of surprise at this candid sentiment swiftly softened into a smile. “And I shall welcome you into it whenever you desire, as you always know how to fill it up just right.” He tipped his head back and put his long pale neck on display for me, as well as his heaving chest and taut belly; his dressing gown was down around his shoulders and rucked up to his elbows, pooled around him and making him look like a debauched catamite.

His provocative posture caused my hips to jerk of their own accord, and I sheathed myself in him with much greater urgency now. As I did so, Holmes tilted his head back up to watch me, appreciatively observing the straining of my muscles and the perspiration that sprang up on my chest as I serviced him. “Watson,” he said, “be careful when you finish. If you do it inside me, some might end up on my new dressing gown. Put it here.” He patted his bare breastbone. “Alright?”

“As you wish,” I said. Satisfied with this, he laid back again, and applied the massager to himself a little more. It filled me with satisfaction to see him enjoying himself so immensely. So often did I watch him neglect or mistreat his body, and so it was truly a treat whenever I got to see him indulging himself in the most voluptuous pleasures.

I noticed that the closer he brought the device to where we were joined, the more distinctly I could feel the vibrations myself, rippling deep inside him. It brought me closer to my crisis, and I was glad to see Holmes begin to pull more insistently at his prick, a sign that he was on the brink as well. His thighs clenched around my hips as he rocked and gasped. He used the massager more and more, stimulating himself closer and closer to the root of his prick, until at last he applied it briskly up and down his shaft, howling like a demon as he did so. His whole body jerked in a paroxysm of spending, his spunk gushing over his belly, and he squeezed hard around my prick. In the heat of that moment, I begged him for one favor:

“Put the thing here,” I said, and guided the hand that held the massager to the place behind his still tightly drawn-up bollocks.

“I’m so sensitive now,” he protested.

“Please, just for a moment.”

“I’ll try.” He placed the device just there and switched it on. The vibrations rumbled through him and directly into my prick, building up deep inside, a most exotic pressure that nearly drove me out of my mind. “Holmes,” I gasped, “I shall make a vow to you at this moment,” I cried. “I promise, _oh_ , I promise to…”

Holmes asked through gritted teeth, “Yes, Watson, what is it you’ll do?”

I grunted, “I’ll pay your cleaning bill,” and began to spend inside him. I had known for several minutes that the most profound climax of my life was imminent, and there was simply no way I was going to experience it anywhere except buried to the deepest depths inside my beloved. Rushes of delicious sensation charged up and down my spine, plunging deep into my belly, pleasure so intensely sublime that it obliterated all conscious thought. As my hips stuttered beyond my control, I became for a moment like the massager: a pulsing, trembling machine.

Holmes’ fear was well-founded: my continued thrusting, and a slow withdrawal afterward, resulted in much of my spunk spilling onto the satin beneath him. I could not bring myself to regret it. Nor did he seem anything but utterly sated, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open as his body worked through the final aftershocks of his climax. I ran my hands up and down his quivering thighs to calm him, allowing erotic contentment to settle over us.

After an experience so preposterously intense, there was nothing else for us to do afterwards, as the blood cooled in our veins, except to catch each other’s eye and burst into peals of laughter. “That thing is the work of the devil,” Holmes said, and then confessed, “I thought I was going to die of pleasure.”

“I thought you were going to bring the roof down,” I said. “What must Mrs. Hudson wonder when she hears the commotion you make?”

Holmes waved a nonchalant hand, heavy with fatigue. “I pay her a little something extra each month to assure that she does _not_ wonder about it.”

After another bout of laughter, we slowly became aware of the stickiness of the cooling sweat and spunk on our depleted bodies. “I hope there’s hot water right now,” Holmes said, as I helped him to sit up.

“A hot bath _would_ be just the thing,” I agreed.

I followed Holmes into the bathroom on shaking legs, to investigate the hot water situation. On the way, we passed by our neglected glasses of burgundy, and I realised I’d nearly forgotten to send my annual bottle of wine to Stamford – my way of thanking him, year after year, for having fortuitously introduced me to the love of my life. As my gaze turned back to Holmes’ lithe, flushed nakedness before me, I resolved to send Stamford _two_ bottles this year, perhaps a red and a white, just for good measure.

**Author's Note:**

> berlynn-wohl on Tumblr and Pillowfort for more of this sort of nonsense, plus information about my stories that are not available on AO3.
> 
> I also used to be something of a BBC!Johnlock fic writer, and you can check those out on this site. :)


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